Soft Edges
by Shinimegami 2.0
Summary: Underneath the moon, and the lamplight that maked everything look softer. . .I don't own Ouran Host Club, or any of the characters.


She ran. Arms pumping, legs churning, she ran to escape. To breathe, to think, to _feel_ something, anything other than this dull pain that gnawed at her chest. She ran, as most things do, to get away.

It was late; the night air felt oppressive, stifling, in its intense heat. It was one of those summer nights that no person would go out on, unless they were inebriated or a large body of water was involved. As it was, she wasn't drunk, and the nearest beach was miles away. She had just needed to get away from them, from those, those, imbeciles, who spent as much time as they could pestering her. She ran, and felt better for it.

When she finally stopped and took note of her surroundings, she found that she was in a park, one that was nearly three miles from her place. It surprised her in a way, because that meant that half an hour had passed by (despite having been a four mile run, at least, from the place she had just been) feeling like ten minutes, or maybe fifteen. She'd had these little time lapses before, when she just _did_ instead of analyzing what she was doing. It really didn't matter that much, she mused with a shrug. Finding a nice bench to settle on for a while, she pulled a lighter and her pack of Newports out of a pocket.

None of the idiots knew that she smoked, though she hadn't actively tried to hide it. Of course, she never took a pack to school with her, but there had to be any number of them to be found in odd places around the apartment. Maybe they thought they were her dad's smokes. Another shrug, then the sound of the flint in her lighter before the flame appeared.

Inhaling deeply as she touched the little flame to the tip of the cigarette between her lips, a smile crossed her features. That first acrid hit of smoke and menthol burned at her, searing her throat and lungs— she loved it. She never felt as good, as peaceful, as she did during a smoking session. It was very Zen, in a way, the constant inhale and exhale, with not a thought or care in your mind. You could float and dream and forget about your problems—

"Hey."

—until something showed up to bring you crashing down. She turned with her patented confusedly genial expression in the direction of the voice who had called her. "Ah, Takashi. What are you doing out so late?" she asked calmly. In her mind, she was ranting about how the only one of those rich bastards she could actively tolerate was about to ruin her Zen.

How. Perfect.

Takashi raised an eyebrow as she took a drag off the Newport in her hand, coolly gliding over to her bench. He sat next to her after a moment, silent as a grave. She appreciated that, as she knew he knew she did. Any of the others would be chatting up a storm, lecturing her about her smoking habit and how bad it was, or fretting about what a dangerous thing it was for her, a single young woman, to be out at this time of night, which was something that she knew he knew she hated.

"The others are looking for you," he said abruptly. She groaned and swore lightly under her breath, whiskey eyes closing in mental agony. Of course they were. Did she actually think that a moment could pass without them trying to track her every move? "They worry for you," was the monotonous answer that seemingly came from out of nowhere. Blinking, she realized that she had voiced that last thought. A wry grin crossed her lips, making her look far older than her delicate fifteen years.

"Please," she snorted, "they aren't worried about me: they're worried about the idea they have of me. They think I'm a china doll, a toy to be stored in some glass case away from the world, something to be taken out at their pleasure, and then tossed away once they're bored." Another deep hit before she squashed the butt down on the ground.

"Do you really believe that?" Her sempai was surprisingly talkative tonight. She paused mid-light, cigarette in her mouth, shoulders hunched, one hand cupping the flame, to look at him, astonished.

She shook her head briefly, lighting her vice of choice. "How can I not?" she asked after the initial puff to get it burning. "When do they ask my opinion, or ask for a reason for why I can't 'play' with them? When do they listen to me?"

"They always listen—?"

"They _hear_ me," she cut him off, "but they don't _listen_ to me. If I tell them that I need to study instead of going along with what they have planned, they just grab me as if I never said anything in the first place. I get so far behind on my schedule, that between school, the Host Club, chores, my studies, and whatever else Tamaki-sempai or the twins have come up with, I'm averaging four hours of sleep a night.

"I really do hate to say it," she continued softly, "but my debt _has_ been paid off. I need to be able to function normally, which means I need to either stop attending the Host Club, or I need to get the others to leave me alone when I have to study; unfortunately, I don't see that last part happening if I stay on as a member." The last part was said more to herself as she considered the smoke that wafted through the air. Her head tilted back, and the stars that she couldn't always see in the city came into focus. It truly was a beautiful night, in spite of the intolerable heat.

They remained silent for awhile, which was bliss in her mind. She sat there, smoking, unworried about what he thought, because she knew. When he tapped her shoulder, not saying a word, she already had her lighter up and ready for his use. She smiled up at him when an arm slid around her shoulders, and moved so that her head was resting on his shoulder.

"I love you, Haruhi," he said gently. She tilted her face up to gaze at him happily, and found him smiling back.

"And I love you, Takashi. Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary." They kissed then, as they celebrated the first full year of their relationship, and it was short and sweet and wonderful, for they were in love, and any problems could wait until tomorrow.

And as they sat on that park bench, underneath the moon, and the lamplight that softened everything at the edges, the smoke from their cigarettes mingled together, and became one as it drifted up towards the heavens.

_The End._

SS- Yeah, I know I haven't updated PoT yet, but this was just itching at my brain so bad, so I had to get it out. I'm working on re-writing the next bit of PoT, seeing as we've installed Vista, and none of my old files work with it. Please, be patient with me.


End file.
